Chapter XLVI. Stop Him!

by Charles Dickens

　　Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating sincethe sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until itfills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeonlights burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's,heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp,too, winks in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But theyare blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, asadmitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfitfor life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on andis gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes onTom-all-Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep.Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out ofParliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tomshall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road byconstables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force offigures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, orby low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set tosplitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of hismind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In themidst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectlyclear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, bereclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice.And in the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost inhis old determined spirit.But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, andthey serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop ofTom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagionsomewhere. It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream(in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) ofa Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say nay to theinfamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not acubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not oneobscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not awickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work itsretribution through every order of society up to the proudest ofthe proud and to the highest of the high. Verily, what withtainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or bynight, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it themore shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to theimagination is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, daycarries it. The day begins to break now; and in truth it might bebetter for the national glory even that the sun should sometimesset upon the British dominions than that it should ever rise uponso vile a wonder as Tom.A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude forsleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on arestless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attractedby curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down themiserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his brightdark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here andthere, he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studiedit before.On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the mainstreet of Tom-all-Alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazyhouses, shut up and silent. No waking creature save himselfappears except in one direction, where he sees the solitary figureof a woman sitting on a door-step. He walks that way.Approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance andis footsore and travel-stained. She sits on the door-step in themanner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee and herhead upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bag, or bundle, she hascarried. She is dozing probably, for she gives no heed to hissteps as he comes toward her.The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt comes towhere the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her.Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops."What is the matter?""Nothing, sir.""Can't you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?""I'm walting till they get up at another house--a lodging-house--not here," the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting here becausethere will be sun here presently to warm me.""I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in thestreet.""Thank you, sir. It don't matter."A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage orcondescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, manypeople deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like littlespelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily."Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. "I am adoctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed handhe can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection,saying, "It's nothing"; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on thewounded place when she lifts it up to the light."Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be verysore.""It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman with a started tearupon her cheek."Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won'thurt you.""Oh, dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!"He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefullyexamined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takesa small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. Whilehe is thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing asurgery in the street, "And so your husband is a brickmaker?""How do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished."Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and onyour dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at pieceworkin different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruelto their wives too."The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that herinjury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon herforehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly dropsthem again."Where is he now?" asks the surgeon."He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at thelodging-house.""He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large andheavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutalas he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deservedit. You have no young child?"The woman shakes her head. "One as I calls mine, sir, but it'sLiz's.""Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!"By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "Isuppose you have some settled home. Is it far from here?" he asks,good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up andcurtsys."It's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At SaintAlbans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a startlike, as if you did.""Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question inreturn. Have you money for your lodging?""Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. Hetells her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that sheis very welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alone's is still asleep, and nothing is astir.Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from whichhe descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees aragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to thesoiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--andfurtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youthwhose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He isso intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of astranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. Heshades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes on the otherside of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on with hisanxious hand before him and his shapeless clothes hanging inshreds. Clothes made for what purpose, or of what material, itwould be impossible to say. They look, in colour and in substance,like a bundle of rank leaves of swampy growth that rotted long ago.Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with ashadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recallhow or where, but there is some association in his mind with such aform. He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital orrefuge, still, cannot make out why it comes with any special forceon his remembrance.He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone's in the morning light,thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, andlooking round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed,followed by the woman."Stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breath less. "Stophim, sir!"He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy isquicker than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comesup half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still thewoman follows, crying, "Stop him, sir, pray stop him!" Allan, notknowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows inchase and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, buteach time he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours awayagain. To strike at him on any of these occasions would be to felland disable him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and sothe grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive,hard-pressed, takes to a narrow passage and a court which has nothoroughfare. Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he isbrought to bay and tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, whostands and gasps at him until the woman comes up."Oh, you, Jo!" cries the woman. "What? I have found you at last!""Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, "Jo! Stay. Tobe sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought beforethe coroner.""Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich," whimpers Jo. "What ofthat? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't Iunfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur tobe? I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixtby another on you, till I'm worritted to skins and bones. Theinkwhich warn't my fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me,he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever comeacross my crossing. It ain't wery likely I should want him to beinkwhiched. I only wish I wos, myself. I don't know why I don'tgo and make a hole in the water, I'm sure I don't."He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear soreal, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like agrowth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there inneglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him.He says to the woman, "Miserable creature, what has he done?"To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figuremore amazedly than angrily, "Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found youat last!""What has he done?" says Allan. "Has he robbed you?""No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-heartedby me, and that's the wonder of it."Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waitingfor one of them to unravel the riddle."But he was along with me, sir," says the woman. "Oh, you Jo! Hewas along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a younglady, Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him whenI durstn't, and took him home--"Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror."Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and likea thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has beenseen or heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And thatyoung lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost herbeautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same younglady now if it wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape,and her sweet voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, doyou know that this is all along of you and of her goodness to you?"demands the woman, beginning to rage at him as she recalls it andbreaking into passionate tears.The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearinghis dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at theground, and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoardingagainst which he leans rattles.Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, buteffectually."Richard told me--" He falters. "I mean, I have heard of this--don't mind me for a moment, I will speak presently."He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the coveredpassage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure,except that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which isso very remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention."You hear what she says. But get up, get up!"Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after themanner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding,resting one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbinghis right hand over his left and his left foot over his right."You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been hereever since?""Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone's till this blessed morning,"replies Jo hoarsely."Why have you come here now?"Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner nohigher than the knees, and finally answers, "I don't know how to donothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, andI thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, andlay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, andthen go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin furto give me somethink he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she was allus a-chivying on me--like everybody everywheres.""Where have you come from?"Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's kneesagain, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding ina sort of resignation."Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?""Tramp then," says Jo."Now tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to overcomehis repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him withan expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that youleft that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate asto pity you and take you home."Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady,that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her,that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner havehad his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, andthat she wos wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himselfthroughout as if in his poor fashion he really meant it, andwinding up with some very miserable sobs.Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrainshimself to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me.""No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. "Idustn't, or I would.""But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come, Jo."After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, "Well, I'lltell you something. I was took away. There!""Took away? In the night?""Ah!" Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him andeven glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding andthrough the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should belooking over or hidden on the other side."Who took you away?""I dustn't name him," says Jo. "I dustn't do it, sir."But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may trust me.No one else shall hear.""Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfulty, "ashe don't hear.""Why, he is not in this place.""Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo. "He's in all manner of places, allat wanst."Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaningand good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. Hepatiently awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by hispatience than by anything else, at last desperately whispers a namein his ear."Aye!" says Allan. "Why, what had you been doing?""Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,'sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I'm a-moving on now.I'm a-moving on to the berryin ground--that's the move as I'm upto.""No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do withyou?""Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I wasdischarged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot youmay call half-crowns--and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' heses. 'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' heses. 'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile ofLondon, or you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he doos see me,and he'll see me if I'm above ground," concludes Jo, nervouslyrepeating all his former precautions and investigations.Allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman butkeeping an encouraging eye on Jo, "He is not so ungrateful as yousupposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was aninsufficient one.""Thankee, sir, thankee!" exclaims Jo. "There now! See how hardyou wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmnses, and it's all right. For you wos wery good to me too, and Iknows it.""Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me andI will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in.If I take one side of the way and you the other to avoidobservation, you will not run away, I know very well, if you makeme a promise.""I won't, not unless I wos to see him a-coming, sir.""Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by thistime, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Comealong. Good day again, my good woman.""Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again."She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now risesand takes it up. Jo, repeating, "Ony you tell the young lady as Inever went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!" nods andshambles and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs andhalf cries, a farewell to her, and takes his creeping way alongafter Allan Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side ofthe street. In this order, the two come up out of Tom-all-Alone'sinto the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air.